Like flowers waiting for the sun to grow
I spoke in rhythms rhymes and prose
Hidden agendas with joy I’d show
Words flowed thru me night and day
A sick curse or game that I had to play
I could not think of things shallow or gay
Every minute a new theory to say
Emotional gritty and real
Constant thought with which to deal
My bloody stamp the poets seal
A crazy captain at the wheel
Where is that boy's wandering mind?
Is this the end of his watches wind?
Or is he waiting for more of his kind?
Could he just be biding time?